Luck Be A Lady
by jessisparks2315
Summary: A dead Marine, a detective who shares a past with Our Fearless Leader, and a gang bent on revenge. A not-so-traditional fic. R/R? Not heavily Tiva, but as much about them as everyone else.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a challenge I created for myself one day (because I have nothing better to do, of course), and the gist of it is this: write an NCIS fic that doesn't center completely around the team, so that I can try to create the usual suspects from a totally different perspective. So I sat down and this is what happened. :) And I'm having a fun time with it! Let me know what you think. (I love reviews. Like a lot.) This first chapter is pretty short, sorry, I'm kind of a short chapters kinda girl. But I promise to update soon! But without further ado, here's Luck be a Lady. **

**(Review? Pretty please?)**

"Barnes."

_Why did that sound so familiar?_

"Barnes!"

_Oh. Because it was her name._

"Luck, this is the fifth time your face has hit your desk. Will you please _wake up._"

Detective Luck Barnes peeled her face from her keyboard and shot an icy look at Detective Sean Grey. "Can it, Cinderella."

Grey rolled his eyes and threw a paper clip at her. She'd dubbed him Cinderella on the day he'd become the the DC Police force's golden boy overnight by catching a killer most of the city hadn't believed existed, and (unfortunately for him) the name had stuck. He still protested every time she used it. "It's not my fault you've been here since 6 PM yesterday."

"It is a Sunday. I'm _off_ on Sundays, for God's sake."

"Literally," he snickered, but for that matter, so was a majority of the rest of Metro. The precinct was uncharacteristically empty today, however. A nasty case of the flu had been exactly what it took to bring down half of DCPD's blue.

She rolled off of her desk chair and headed for the break room.

"What are you doing?"

"Coffee," she snapped.

"Luck."

"_What_?"

Grey caught up with her. "We've, uh, got a break in the case."

"The John Doe?" she asked, coffee momentarily forgotten. Grey caught up to her, but the look on his face was still less than thrilled. They'd been assigned the case of a John Doe who'd been found, stripped and partially burned, in a wooded area just inside city limits. Missing teeth, burned fingers, and post-mortem damage had made identification impossible, and Luck had been endlessly frustrated at every turn - since six o'clock the previous night. At six pm on the following day, Grey hadn't convinced her to take a break or to go home. No one knew anything, and no one cared. Thus far, their only clue was a small tattoo on the victim's calf- a blue eagle carrying a bleeding heart in its talons. No leads on the artist or where it had been inked. A few scars around the knee indicated a knee surgery, but the procedure was so common in the area that it had only narrowed their pool down to the thousands.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Leads typically had him bouncing off the walls like a ten year old on Christmas morning, but he was uncharacteristically silent as she scalded her hand on a hot carafe. "Shit. What's the _break_, Cinderella?"

"Your John Doe's one of ours," said a new voice. "And don't call me Cinderella."

The detective snapped a full 180 degree turn and spilled another cup of coffee over her hand, seemingly without noticing.

"Gibbs?"

Sean was standing next to a silver-haired man dressed in a polo, clean-cut sports coat and trenchcoat, with a slight smile on his face. Grey, on the other hand, looked baffled.

"You know each other?"

"We do," Gibbs said, handing Luck a napkin. "Having a rough day, Detective Barnes?"

"You could say that," she sighed, mopping up her mess. She looked up at Gibbs (he towered over her by nearly six inches). "It's been - I've - I'm really..."

Sean frowned at her.

"Oh. Um." She cleared her throat, as if remembering that he was there. "Agent Gibbs, this is my partner, Detective Sean Grey, otherwise known as Cinderella. Mainly by me. Sean, this is Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs of NCIS."

Nods.

"Gibbs, you said our somewhat crispy John Doe is one of yours?"

"Missing Marine," he said. "Didn't show up for his post a week ago, hasn't shown up since. Buddy described the tat on his leg."

There was a moment of edged silence.

"He was our find, Gibbs," she said quietly, taking a sip of coffee.

"He's one of our people," he responded.

Grey folded his arms and watched the silent battle of ice blue and emerald green eyes.

Luck grinned crookedly. "What's that rule, Gibbs? Our case, our lead?"

"That only applies to my people."

"I'm hurt. Am I not one of your people?"

"Not tonight, Luck." He drew out the "l" sound.

She stood straight, squaring her shoulders and chin. "So it's settled," she said. "We'll share lead. Where are your people? I'm sure your ME - still Doctor Mallard, right? -will want to look at the body. But it's staying in _our _autopsy."

"They're downstairs."

She jerked her head toward the door. "If you would, Agent Gibbs?"

He gave her a bemused nod. "You ever gonna tell me how you got such a crazy name as _Luck_?"

"My mother was a hippie and my daddy was a poet, Gibbs, get a move on."

"Detective Barnes," he said, and exited.

Luck directed her attention back to Grey. "I'm surprised he didn't comment on the coffee," she murmured.

"That's because that's not coffee," Gibbs called from down the hall.

Rolling her eyes, she waited until she heard the 'ding' of the elevator before she muttered, "Fed."

Sean punched her lightly in the shoulder.

"What?"

"Want to tell me what just happened?"

She laughed and moved off toward her desk. "Get detecting, detective."

"Oh, come on," he insisted, following her. "You two have _some_ sort of history. Judging by the way you boiled your hands and didn't notice when he walked in."

Luck threw his coat at him.

"Shut up, Cinderella. All will be revealed. But if NCIS beats us to the collar, I am _never_ speaking to you again."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here's chapter two! :) Much more about the rest of the team this time. Let me know what you think... I might post the next part faster if there are more reviews... ;)**

"Let's go," were the first words out of Gibbs' mouth as the elevator doors slid open. There was a clatter as the chair Tony had been tipping back at a dangerous angle fell, along with the agent himself.

"Where we goin', boss?" he asked, showing no signs that the chair incident had ever occurred.

"We have a dead Marine, DiNozzo."

Tony turned smartly and headed for the door.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Where ya goin'?"

DiNozzo looked quizzically at Ziva and McGee, who were entirely unhelpful. "Back... to NCIS, boss? We, uh, going somewhere else?"

"Upstairs."

The ensuing scramble for the elevator resulted in McGee taking an elbow (likely Tony's) to the face and Ziva resolving to exact revenge on both men at a later date.

Gibbs was giving them The Look again. The one that reminded them that they were all behaving like children. Tony stole a glance at Ziva, who was standing primly in a corner and pretending she hadn't tripped him on their way in. She caught him scowling and stuck her tongue out at him with supreme maturity.

"So, boss, what's the story?" McGee asked, trying to both forcibly break the silence and prevent a fight between the Mossad officer and his fellow agent.

"We're sharing jurisdiction with Metro."

Three blank stares and a question hanging in the air, unasked.

Unasked until, of course, Tony said hesitantly: "And you're... okay... with that."

"Yep."

Silence. Ziva, for some reason, found the lack of music or sound of any kind highly irritating. In any case, it was 7 PM on a Sunday, and a tiny, rickety elevator in Metro headquarters was _not_ a place she wanted to be.

There was a tinny 'ding' and the doors slid open to reveal two rather determined-looking people with gold badges gleaming at their belts. Both parties moved at the same time - the NCIS team to step off and the Metro pair to step on, and a brief standoff froze them in time for a moment, in which Ziva sized up the newcomers. The man was tall, with sandy blonde hair that obviously did nothing it was told to do (including lay flat), dark brown eyes, and a tired expression on his scruffy face that seemed to say, _What NOW?_ She decided that he was a scrapper, a brawler, like Tony, getting by on sheer determination and force of will rather than style or technique. She decided she liked him, for some reason.

The woman, on the other hand, seemed quite different. Auburn hair swept back into a ponytail. Full mouth drawn tight and standing out against very white skin, and her entire stance screamed "grit" as if someone had said it aloud. She was short, though, probably not more than five and a half feet, and the entire team found themselves looking down toward her. But she could take care of herself. Style and substance. It took Ziva a moment to realize that Gibbs and the other woman were talking.

"I never said to bring them up, Gibbs," she was saying.

Gibbs eyed her, then turned to the team. "Detective Luck Barnes," he said dryly, making room for her on the elevator. "And Detective Sean Grey." Tony, Ziva, and McGee gave Grey perfunctory nods, but Tony added, "Luck? _Luck_ Barnes?"

"Her mother was a hippie and her father was a poet," Gibbs said, and still no one quite understood why that made the detective smirk.

They descended again - much to the NCIS team's irritation - and the questions began.

Where was the body found? She told them, but it wasn't a particularly prominent place.

In what condition? They would see, in just a moment.

Who had called it in? Anonymous tipster, from the nearest phone booth, identifying himself (she was sure it was a him) as a runner. They had sent out a car immediately, checked out every possible lead, and gotten nowhere.

Cause of death? They didn't know.

Time of death? About a day and a half ago.

Other evidence? Bagged and tagged, but still waiting to be processed.

By the end of the elevator ride, Gibbs wanted to know if there was anything they _did_ know.

Luck raised an eyebrow at him - Ziva noticed the man, Grey, rolling his eyes - and said, "If we had a handful of resources, we might know more than that. But our best forensics specialist is out for the next four days, and his substitutes are either entirely swamped or entirely useless." They filed into the cramped autopsy room to discover that Ducky and Palmer were already there, being restrained from examining their subject by the Metro officer who had escorted them down upon arrival.

"Jethro!" Ducky said, with the air of one who knows things are about to go his way, "This is outrageous. This man says that we are not to be permitted to remove the body back to our own autopsy!"

"We're not, Duck."

"And why ever not?"

"Because it's still partially our jurisdiction," Detective Grey said, not unkindly. "But." He looked over at Luck. "Can I have a word?"

She nodded, then waved back the officer who was still halfheartedly blocking Ducky from the body. "Jameson, it's fine. Doctor Mallard, you can do prelim if you like."

Luck's partner pulled her into a corner of the room and stood with his back to the rest of the group, practically hiding her from view. "Look," he said. "I know we want jurisdiction. And I know we both need this case, but our resources are _shot_ right now. Brian's got fifteen bodies to do a full autopsy on _before _our John Doe, half the rest of the precinct is out on pre-arranged vacation days or down with that flu."

She held his eyes for a moment. "You want us to give the case to NCIS."

"Not completely. Just give them more of the lead."

She bit her lip- something she did when thinking hard about something - and sighed. "Heads - _our _heads - are going to roll if we hand this over to the feds."

"Just giving them the lead," he hissed. "Not handing it over completely."

Luck stole a glance at the NCIS team around her partner's midsection (at around 6 foot two inches, looking over his shoulder was out of the question), to find everyone but Ducky and Palmer staring at them. She ducked back behind him and scowled slightly.

"Fine," she conceded, pushing him lightly. He grabbed her arm before she could get past him.

"Hey. I'm sorry, okay?"

She smiled. "No you're not. But you're right. So don't be smug about it later, is all."

He smiled back.

"Deal."

They moved back to the team and Luck addressed Ducky, clearing her throat. "Load him up, would you, Dr. Mallard?"

The NCIS team stared at her, uncomprehending.

"Our lead, Duck," Gibbs said, raising his eyebrows. The medical examiner and his assistant got to work preparing the remains to be moved as Luck looked on passively.

She looked up and caught Gibbs looking at her expectantly. "You have the resources," she explained, looking irritable. "Catching a killer is more important than jurisdiction squabbles. Cinderella?" And she turned abruptly to leave the room, her partner on her heels.

Exhaling, Gibbs followed. Tony stared after them in something like awe.

"What is so incredible, Tony?" Ziva asked, somewhat sharply.

"It's like another Gibbs... a short, girly Gibbs - oof." Tony breathed in sharply as Ziva had backhanded him across the stomach.

"Collect yourself," she hissed, then turned to McGee. "I do not think she was anything like Gibbs. Do you, McGee?"

"Well, actually..." he said, musing. "She does seem a lot like him."

"The rare smiles," Tony said, still spellbound. "The insulting nicknames..."

"Insulting nicknames?" Palmer asked.

"She called her partner _Cinderella_," he said.

"She was talking to _him_?"

"Who else did you think she was talking to, gremlin?"

"Look at it this way," McGee said suddenly, grinning with the pride he usually felt when he'd thought of something that would make Tony laugh.

"What way?"

"At least you know she'll never headslap you."

"But I will," Gibbs said, landing a solid hand on the back of McGee's head and leaving the rest of the room wondering where he'd come from. A smirking Detective Barnes opened the door to the parking lot.

As Gibbs led the way to the van, Ducky could be heard to comment: "She does bear a striking resemblance to Jethro, if I do say so."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yes, another Luck-centric chapter... but it's necessary to establish the case ;) More of the team to come! (Also... there are over 350 hits on this story and only 4 reviews. From 2 people. Come on. Review? Please? Will write for reviews.) Actually, let me know something you'd like to see happen in this story and I'll see what I can do! Love the feedback. ;) **

**Once again, I have no ownership of anything... except Luck and Grey. *sniff***

In the end, Gibbs told them all to go home, get some sleep, and be at NCIS bright and early. (To be safe, most of them planned on being there at roughly 7 AM.) Luck and Sean, however, had other plans. Other plans involving cold carryout and piles of evidence.

Not piles, really. The evidence in this case was shoddy at best, but, as Sean put it, they would be damned if NCIS caught anything before they did. What physical evidence they had couldn't be disturbed until forensics got hold of it, so tonight, Luck declared, would be devoted to pictures.

Sean looked at her over his desk - which they'd chosen because it was miraculously less cluttered than hers - and frowned.

"You've been awake for what? 30 hours now?"

"Give or take," she said, around a mouthful of Chinese takeout. "Don't act like my mother tonight of all nights. Please."

His face said it wasn't, but he said, "Okay."

"Let's start over here," she said, setting the photos out so that they were spread by geographic location.

"Huh-uh. I'll look at the general. You look at the details." He kept the broadest photos out on the desk and handed her the close-ups. They lapsed into silence, Grey's head bent intently over the jigsaw crime scene. After a few moments, he noticed Luck fidgeting.

"Yes?" he said.

"Can I talk?" she whispered.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. You can talk. How else were we going to communicate? Hand gestures?"

She laughed, and it sounded almost like a giggle. "I play a mean game of Charades."

Sean stared at her. "You really are sleep deprived, aren't you?"

"Exceedingly."

"Okay then, talk it out. If it keeps you awake."

She cleared her throat, which seemed to sober her up a bit.

"Look at this." She pointed to an impression in the dirt that had been marked as a possible footprint. "Who has feet that big"?"

"Me?" he suggested, kicking his own foot under the desk so that she could see it.

She caught it and said, "Two things. One - your shoes have a tread."

"It could have been worn away by weather."

"Without wearing away at the rest of the print?"

"The person could have cleared out the tread."

"Why not just obliterate the entire footprint? Two," she continued, tapping his shoe. "Your foot tapers. It's narrower in the middle. This doesn't show any tapering at all."

He didn't have an answer for that, so he just leaned back in his chair and waited for her to muddle through her own thoughts (and hopefully let go of his foot). Luck had other ideas.

"Get up," she said, pulling on him and then dropping his foot suddenly to the floor. He complied. She stood, too, picture so close to her face her nose was practically touching it. "Wait." She stretched up to push on his shoulder, still looking at the photo. "Lay down."

"Lay down?"

"Like a dead body."

He obeyed, somewhat mystified.

"He was on his back..." she mused. "Lay your head down, you're dead, Cinderella."

"Fine."

"It's not a _foot_ print," she said slowly, sinking down to one knee beside him. "It's a knee print."

"And this is significant because?"

"You're _dead_. Shut _up._"

"This better be good."

"Why would you kneel beside someone?" she asked, leaning her arms across her knee and laying the photograph on his shoulder to look at it from a different vantage point.

"To check if they were alive?"

"There's that."

"To pull out their teeth?"

"There was no burning around the body, and the gums were scorched even where teeth would have been. The teeth were gone before the body was there, and the body was burned before it was dumped."

He sat up slightly. "I don't think dumped is the right word."

"Why?"

"Your turn," he said, pulling her down to the ground and rolling up to his knees. "Lay flat." She did, laying her arms straight.

"Arms weren't like that." He moved her hands so that they laid on top of each other on her stomach. "They were like this. And if I were kneeling over someone I knew... who I felt sorry for killing... I might lay their hands like this."

She frowned, looking up at him. "Why would you kill someone you knew, and feel bad about it, and still burn their face past recognition?"

"Because you had to?"

Her frown was suddenly split by a yawn, and he laughed. "We can do this tomorrow, you know."

"No no no," she protested, yawning again and hitting his knee. "Lemme think. Serial."

"Why would a serial feel sorry?"

"We don't _know_ that it was feeling sorry. Maybe it was..." She trailed off.

Sean waited for a beat. "Maybe it was what?"

"I lost my train of thought," she sighed.

Her partner laughed. "Okay. Up you go." He pulled her up off the floor and she leaned against the desk. "Go home. We'll cover this tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah," she said, blindly groping across the desk for her keys.

"Barnes?"

"Mhm?"

"That's _my_ desk. Yours is over _there._"

"Damn," she muttered, making her way across the room.

He beat her to it and snatched her keys up. "Well, you can't walk a straight line. As a cop, I am _not_ letting you drive yourself home. I'll give these back when I drop you off -" he cut off the question she was about to ask and said, "And I'll give you a ride in to NCIS tomorrow."

In the end she not only allowed him to drive her home, but fell soundly asleep in the car. And when she asked him later how she'd gotten inside and onto her own couch, he just told her not to worry about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm so very sorry that it's taken me so long to update this story! I hope that I'll be able to update more in the upcoming days. Til then, let me know what you think. 3 (And as always, NCIS is not mine.)**

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It was 7 AM sharp when Gibbs walked in to find the bullpen empty - for a few blissful seconds. Moments later, the entirety of the team spilled groggily off of the elevator, the two Metro detectives in tow.

"You're late," he said. No one had a response, except, of course, Luck, who looked as if she'd been run over by a train.

"We were following up on a lead," she said. "Except tattoo parlors don't tend to be open at 6:30 AM."

"Tattoo parlors?" Tony asked.

"Like the one the Sons use to mark their members," she said, looking up at their leader.

Gibbs' head snapped up. "The Sons?"

Both detectives nodded. Luck shook her head slightly at Gibbs.

"DiNozzo," he barked, still looking at her.

"Victim background, got it, boss." DiNozzo stood, clearing his throat, and gestured to the plasma. McGee complied and the victim's service picture appeared. "Private Santos Covas. Age twenty. Grew up around DC, started getting arrested for gang-related activities at age fourteen. Mostly petty theft, but then apparently he started getting the big jobs. Suspected to be involved in four break-ins and one armed robbery, then caught and convicted of armed robbery at age 17. The judge told him he could go to jail or join the Marine Corps when he turned 18, and it looks like he chose the Marines. Had a pretty clean service record, either that or he didn't get caught doing whatever it is he was - sorry boss, back to the point. His CO's say that he seemed to have been shaping up into a good soldier, stayed clean, hardly ever talked about home."

"Ziva."

"Stationed in DC for the next two months, but on his second day on duty, he did not show up for his post. He had never even been late before, so it set up a flag for his commanding officer."

Luck and Grey traded looks, perplexed.

"'Sent up a red flag,'" McGee whispered. "Roll with it."

They did.

"McGee," Gibbs interrupted.

"Records," McGee said, "Looks like Private Covas made a full turn around. He was a 'half hour hero' - a student mentor, for younger kids, when he was on leave for a month in New York, and he was a model Marine. CO said he was the kind of kid who'd been a follower because he didn't know what else to be."

"Any more _significant_ records?"

"Pulling up Covas' phone records right now, boss." McGee's computer chirped and he looked slightly nervous as everyone in the bullpen stared at him. "In the few weeks before he got back to DC, he was getting a lot of calls from a law firm. Draper and Travis."

Tony and Ziva lunged simultaneously for their phones, but were stopped by McGee's slightly self-satisfied smile.

"I looked them up and called them last night. Private Covas was involved in a case they were pursuing, but they wouldn't tell me any more without a warrant."

Gibbs looked at him expectantly.

"Which I asked for via e-mail on the way here," McGee finished, somewhat lamely.

There was no 'Good work,' but there were no threats of badge revocation.

Gibbs returned his attention to Luck, who waved a sheet of paper. Her partner, on the other hand, looked shocked to be called upon. "Covas was a member of the Sons. I'm willing to bet they wanted him to testify against one of his former buddies. I have a friend in the courts, I'll leave it at that." Grey coughed. "Cinderel-Grey's friend."

Grey grabbed the sheet of paper and held it open. It was a sketch of the tattoo found on Private Covas' ankle. "This is the Sons' mark. Your devotion to the gang is shown by how grandly you display it. Get it tattooed all over your body, you're a devotee. Get a mark like Covas', and you're just dabbling, the whole gang is suspicious you might be a narc." The NCIS team traded knowing looks. The drive to please Gibbs seemed to be infectious.

"So, Covas was testifying against a street gang that already mistrusted him, and was murdered," Ziva said. "This seems to me to be enough motive. We simply do not know who to bring in."

"No one knows much about the Sons' leadership," Grey said, leaning against the cubicle beside her desk. "They're intensely... private, I guess you could say. There are rumors that there is no leader any more, but most people -"

"The Sons' leader is a man who calls himself Torro," Gibbs said. "But his real name is Elias Martinez." He took a long swallow of coffee as Grey gaped at him.

"You have this information, and you never told anyone?" he asked harshly.

"No one ever asked me," Gibbs said, but his eyes slid over to Luck. She was impassive. "Ziva, DiNozzo," he ordered, "Go to the lawyers and-"

"Find what we can without a warrant, boss, on it," Tony said. Ziva was already halfway to the elevator, with Tony on her heels.

"McGee, get with Abby on that damn unprocessed evidence."

"On it, boss."

"Grey, Barnes, you're with me."

Neither one of them thought to argue.


	5. Chapter 5

"So what do you think?" Tony asked in the car. He'd managed to keep the keys from Ziva, at least. She tilted her head over her cup of tea, still a bit peeved that he hadn't let her drive.

"I think that it is very unlikely that a lawyer will be at his office at 7:20 in the morning," she said.

"Not about the lawyer," he said impatiently. "Gibbs. This detective. That look he gave her when she said 'the Sons?' You had to notice that."

Ziva tilted her head a little further, not quite agreeing, but not quite disagreeing. "There seems to be something there," she acknowledged. "As if perhaps they have worked together, which is not too difficult to imagine, as we have been involved in many cases with the local police."

Tony didn't look convinced. "I don't know. I think there's something more there."

Ziva waited patiently for the forthcoming outburst of conjecture. She didn't have long to wait.

"Think he could be old enough to be her father? She's what? Late 20's? He's... how old do you think Gibbs is?"

She swallowed a laugh as best she could, but he could still hear it in her voice. "I do not know how old Gibbs is, Tony. And I do not think that he is her father."

"But she has reddish hair. You know how Gibbs has a thing for redheads."

"Well then perhaps he has a... 'thing' for her!"

"No need to get snappy," he huffed. "And that's disgusting."

"It is no more far-fetched than her being his daughter."

They rode in irritable silence for a moment. Tony cracked first (damn it, she _did _always win, didn't she?), and said, "Let's change the subject."

"Alright. To what?"

"How about the case?"

"There is not much to be said for the case. It seems perfectly clear. He was going to testify against a member of the Sons, and the Sons have killed him."

"It does seem pretty open and shut, doesn't it?"

She could read his body language and tone like no one else. "You think not?"

"It seems too... easy."

"Sometimes things - cases - are easy. They are almost the only things that have ever been simple."

He looked at her with that expression that said he was searching for something behind her eyes. "And what's so easy about murder?"

"Motive," she said quietly. "There are only a few reasons for a man to kill. They kill because of lust, hate, and money." She paused. "And sometimes men kill for duty."

Tony was, for once in his life, quiet. "Nothing good in there but duty, huh?" he said, after a moment.

"Even duty can be misled."

"I know."

The air in the car seemed heavy and charged for a moment, and again Tony felt compelled to break it - this time in a fashion more quintessentially DiNozzo.

"It's like _Saving Private Ryan_." (It wasn't, not at all, but he figured that it was a safe bet that she didn't know that.)

"No, it is nothing like _Saving Private Ryan_," she said, frowning at him.

He glowered. "You would see that movie, wouldn't you?"

"I was told that it was a classic of American film!" she said, sloshing her tea dangerously.

"It is."

"So what is your point?"

"That this case is nothing like _Saving Private Ryan_. Except that there's a private."

"Exactly!" Her voice went up an octave.

"So what are you arguing about?"

"I am not the one arguing!"

"There's something else that bothers me," Tony interrupted, sensing a rant coming on.

She deflated from her developing tantrum and sat back with a sigh. "What is that, Tony?"

"Gibbs knew the leader of the gang. Why didn't he recognize the tattoo?"

"Perhaps he has not interacted with the gang in a long time?"

"Have you ever heard of Gibbs forgetting something?"

Ziva was getting frustrated. "Perhaps you give Gibbs too much credit."

Tony came three inches short of bringing them to a screeching halt, staring at her. "Gibbs? Too much credit?" He shook his head and muttered.

"I am just making a suggestion!"

Further muttering.

"I am... sorry?"

"You should be."

"Do you want to get back to the case?"

"Well, we're here. Is that back to the case enough for you, Miss To-the-Point?"

They had, in fact, arrived. Both agents peered up at the brownstone building, squinting at the sun behind it. "There is no one here," Ziva observed.

"Aren't we observant?" Tony said, turning the car off and leaning back with his eyes closed.

"You are going to just sit there?" Ziva asked, astounded.

"Yes. Yes I am. Until someone worth talking to gets here," he said pointedly.

"Fine."

"Fine."

They settled in to wait.

"Do you think Gibbs _already knows_ what the lawyer thing is about?"

"Tony!"

****


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: So sorry it's taken me so long to update, lovelies! I'll try and be more on top of things from now on._

"This is crap, McGee," Abby said, throwing her hands up. "There is so much... _crap_ here that I don't even know what to do with it. It's so much crap, the manure pile on my grandpa's farm is jealous. It's so much crap, that -"

"Got it, Abs," McGee said, filtering through an entire bag of wrappers and other unidentifiable bits of paper with gloved fingers.

"Isn't there anything _electronic_ on this case?" she asked, voice near a whine.

"Phone records," he said.

"There was _nothing_ unusual. Nothing at _all._ Do you know how strange that is, McGee?"

He frowned at her. "Um... I'd say not that strange?"

Her scowl deepened. "You're right, Timmy."

"I... I am?"

"Yes. You're very right. And what's strange is that _there is nothing strange_."

McGee set down the "evidence." "I don't follow."

Abby whirled on a platform heel and began intently jabbing at keys on her computer, pulling up the private's phone records. "Most people will have repeat callers," she said, running through all in and outgoing calls. "A telemarketer you can't get to leave you alone, your mom, an ex-boyfriend or someone you gave your number to at a bar... Like Dave. I don't remember how he got my number but he called all the time, and he wanted to get a little friendly over the phone, but I wasn't really into that kind of thing and he was creeping me out a little so I told him not to call me any more then when he did I finally just set my phone to give him a dial tone whenever his number came in and I guess it worked because -"

"Abby."

"What?"

McGee raised his eyebrows at her. "Is there a point?"

"Well of course, McGee. He stopped calling me!" she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"No, Abby, with the phone records," he said patiently.

"He doesn't have _any_ repeat calls. _Any_."

"That's odd," he said, stepping closer to lean over her shoulder, intrigued. This was the sort of twist that would set them theorizing for hours, or at least until the answer was found. "Try categorizing by area codes."

"If he lived in any particular area, he's going to get a lot of calls from the same area code," she said, but sorted them anyway. She was correct.

"Can you trace where each of the calls was made?"

"Only if they're land lines," she said, fingers flying. Locations appeared and were mapped for each of the land-based phone numbers. She smiled with her characteristic intensity, red lips tight together . McGee's eyes lit up. "_There_," they said, simultaneously.

The past six phone calls had come from six different phone booths within a three block radius of each other, within a space of five days.

"McGee!" Abby exclaimed. "Do you know what this means?"

He grinned at her. "I'm thinking this is Sons' territory."

"It is," Gibbs said. Abby held out her hand so quickly that McGee heard her elbow pop. No Caf-Pow was forthcoming. "What do you got, Abs?"

"In the five days before Private Covas died, he got six calls from phone booths in these three blocks, which, as you know, is Sons' territory. It looks like he got mixed back up in the dark and mysterious underground world of gang life, Gibbs," the forensics expert explained, eyes practically glowing.

"Or pulled back in," said another voice. Luck was leaning against the doorway.

Abby stared at her, wide-eyed and open mouthed until McGee made introductions. It wasn't until Luck shook Abby's hand that she spoke.

"You got into my lab without me knowing about it."

"So did Gibbs...?" Luck responded, bemused.

"But Gibbs has a Gibbs sense," Abby said incredulously. "You, on the other hand, are _not_ Gibbs, and therefore should not have a Gibbs sense _or_ be able to sneak in without my noticing."

"Maybe I just followed him down here?" the detective suggested, shooting a look at Gibbs, who was watching with mostly-concealed amusement.

Abby narrowed her eyes. "Hm." She redirected her attention to Gibbs. "Caf-Pow?"

"What else you got?" he asked. Luck removed herself to a corner, preferring to observe.

"Nothing _yet_, Gibbs, but that could be because I haven't had -" An electronic alert sounded.

"Uh, boss, we got a hit on a fingerprint," McGee said, clicking on the alert. "We pulled it off of a gum wrapper from the scene."

"Gum wrapper?" Gibbs said incredulously.

"Gum wrapper," McGee confirmed. "Print belongs to a Martin Marquez. Got a rap sheet as long as my arm, mostly assault and battery, usually with a group. Has a Sons' tattoo, but he doesn't seem to be all that high up in the hierarchy if he's not doing anything solo."

"That's good work, you two," Gibbs declared, setting Abby's Caf-Pow down on her workspace with a decisive tap and vanishing out the door with instructions to Luck to get Grey, they were bringing Marquez in.

Abby craned her neck to watch them go. "Who's _that_?" she hissed, as soon as they were out of earshot. McGee shrugged.

"Metro detective."

"How does she know Gibbs?" Abby demanded. "C'mon, McGee, give me the whole story with all the juicy details. Please?"

"I don't know any juicy details, Abs."

Her eyes narrowed again. "But you have theories."

He sighed. "Tony has theories."

"But Tony's not here. Come onnnnnnnnn, McGeeeeeeeeee." She elongated each word in an ear-splitting pitch.

"Okay! He thinks..." he leaned closer and lowered his voice while raising his eyebrows. "He thinks Gibbs might be Detective Barnes' father."

Her reaction wasn't quite what he expected: a calculating look washed over her face, eyes narrowed.

"Abby... what are you thinking?"

She whirled toward the computer, fingers flying. "I'm wondering if I can get that baby making software to work backwards..."

McGee decided to sit back and enjoy the ride.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So sorry it's taken me so long to update - coursework really cuts in to my writing time. In any case, enjoy, and I promise, I'll _try_ to update as soon as possible!**

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* * *

**

Ducky had a knack for knowing the exact second Gibbs walked into autopsy, whether he heard footfalls or not, and this time was no different.

"Ah, Jethro," he said, without looking up. "I was wondering when you'd be granting us a visit. No Detective Barnes, I see?"

"Sent her home for a few hours," he said, without explanation.

"You're quite right to do that, Jethro," Ducky approved, washing his hands. "She didn't sleep last night. I saw her in the lobby. That young woman has something more on her mind than a particularly hard case, if I'm not mistaken."

Gibbs didn't reply. That had never stopped Ducky before, and it didn't now.

"You know, Jethro, you haven't seemed yourself since we took this case."

"That so, Duck?"

"Indeed," the medical examiner said, brandishing a scalpel with a thoughtful air. "You and that young lady have quite a history. And I don't have to be certified to see that whatever it is that you share, it's all tied up in this case."

"It is, Duck."

"And would you care to discuss whatever personal history you have with the young detective?"

Gibbs paused. "It's a long story, Duck."

Ducky gestured to the covered body on his table. "Well, Jethro, it seems that neither I nor my patient are going anywhere. We have all the time in the world. Or rather as much time as we can steal before the case catches up to us."

Gibbs sighed, leaning back against one of the autopsy tables and folding his arms. "Alright, then."

_It had been in that dark time, the months after Shannon and Kelly's deaths, when he spent days drunk and nights wandering. He was yet to join NIS, on leave from the Corps, aimless. _

__

_He found himself in so many places, in those days, unsure how he ended up in them, drifting without purpose and rousing himself from his own thoughts in coffee shops, in diners, in inner city ghettos with empty, echoing streets, and in his own home, which echoed just as badly._

__

_He looked up. A diner. A stick-skinny waitress, eighteen or nineteen at most, holding out a scorched carafe with a mildly quizzical look._

__

_"Coffee?"_

__

_"'s not coffee," he muttered, out of habit, but he held out his mug anyway._

__

_She frowned. "You're outta place here, huh?"_

__

_He scowled at her through the throbbing mass of a hangover that hovered over his skull. "How d'you mean?"_

__

_She grinned. (She was very, very young, he realized at that moment, young and old, all at the same time, and there was something about her that he wanted to protect. Something that reminded him of - _no_, bury those memories in drink and pointless conversation, Jethro, bury them.) "Can I sit?"_

__

_He glanced around. The remainder of the diner was empty - it was 9:30 pm, between the truly late crowd and the evening patrons. "Be my guest."_

__

_She sat in the slick red leather booth across from him, sneakered feet tucked to the side, and leaned her elbows on the table. Her hair was shockingly blonde, then, but he could see the deeper auburn of her roots at the crown of her head. _

__

_"Let me guess," she said, snatching a mug from the other side of the counter and pouring herself a cup of black coffee. "Military. Career." She examined him again through narrowed eyes, sipping at the pitch-dark sludge in her cup. "Not Army, not Air Force, Navy. Not Special Forces. Or SEALs. Marines. Um." Something in his face must have shifted, because she said, "I'm dead on, aren't I?"_

__

_"You're close."_

__

_"Sniper," she said, with damning finality, sitting back._

_He studied her in turn, and they both drank, her look a challenge and his a question._  
_  
_

_"What's your name?"_

__

_"Luck," she said._

__

_"Your real name."_

__

_"That's it."_

__

_"What kind of parent names their kid _Luck_?"_

__

_"My mother was a hippie and my daddy was a poet."_

__

_He chuckled. The sound felt foreign._

__

_"What's your name?" she asked, never seeming to ponder the strangeness of the distant friendship being forged between the devastated Marine and the odd lower class waitress._

__

_"Gibbs," he said. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs."_

__

_"What kind of parent names their kid _Leroy_?" she countered._

__

_"Mine," he said simply. _

__

_She nodded, suddenly serious. "It's good to meet you, Gibbs."_

__

_"You too, Luck."_

__

_It came as a small shock when he realized that he was telling the truth: it was._


	8. Chapter 8

"So, you say you're... relatives of Mr. Covas?"

Ziva rearranged the positioning of her feet, looking prim as possible. "Well. _I_ am a relative of Santos, but this is my..."

"Boyfriend," Tony said, offering the paralegal across the desk from them as winning a smile as he could muster.

"I see..." the girl said uncertainly. "And... why would you want to see Mr. Covas' records?"

"As you likely know, Santos..." Ziva trailed off with a slight quiver to her voice, for dramatic effect.

Tony patted her hand sympathetically and finished: "Santos... passed on earlier this week. And Maria, here, is worried that his records will come under scrutiny during the investigation. We're just trying to make sure that there's nothing that will, erm, cast a shadow on his memory."

Ziva nodded, face contorted in a look that Tony assumed was meant to be tearful, but actually made her look more like someone was stepping on her toes. He smothered the urge to roll his eyes and turned the charm up another notch on the paralegal, who looked slightly alarmed.

"Look, Mister..."

"Johnson."

"Mister Johnson, I don't know if I should show you those, they're confidential."

The tone became more wheedling. "Aw, we don't want to photograph them or anything, just get a look at them so we know what to, you know, prepare for in the upcoming weeks."

They both tensed: the doubt was not fading from the girl's face in the slightest. Tony was feeling the need to change tack when his phone rang. The screen said simply: _Probie_.

"Excuse me," he said, flashing another 100-watt smile and standing to turn away from the desk. "Yes, _Tim_?"

"Trying to undercover your way into the files, I presume?" McGee asked briskly from the other end.

"Maybe..." Tony said, through his smile.

"Don't worry about it, I'm faxing you the warrant as we speak." In a room down the hall, Tony could hear a fax machine come to life. "Go get it, and you can stop pretending to be Ziva's boyfriend now."

"How did you-"

"Come on, Tony. What else are you going to do?"

"I'll deal with you later, Probie." Tony hung up the phone without further discussion and vanished briefly out of the room to retrieve the warrant. Ziva sat uncomfortably with her hands clasped around one knee, unsure as to whether she should continue the ruse.

"Well, forget that," Tony said from the door, brandishing badge in one hand and warrant in the other. Ziva let out an audible sigh of relief and extracted her own badge from her coat pocket.

"We will have a look at those records, now." 


	9. Chapter 9

The bullpen has a certain hum to it when a case seems to truly be going somewhere, a sort of low buzz of questions and solid-sounding answers, and this case was no exception.

Luck and Grey had returned, looking infinitely fresher than they had five hours before, and were ready to help Tony and Ziva delve in to the information they had retrieved from the lawyers' offices. When Tony re-entered the bullpen, carefully balancing an egg crate tray of coffee, he found Luck and Grey sitting calmly on the floor in the center of the carpet, Grey laying out photos, and Luck scribbling wildly on notecards.

Tony shot a look at Ziva, who shrugged, peering over her computer at the pair from Metro. Grey caught the look and smiled. "Well, we don't have desk space or a white board."

"Now ya do," Gibbs said, turning a sharp corner into the bullpen with Abby behind him, beaming as she pulled a towering white board into the pen.

Luck smiled at her and immediately started taping notecards in a tidy row.

"Timeline," she explained to Abby, who looked fascinated. "And sort of a checklist." Grey was busy writing notes on their prime suspects: the Sons.

"Ziva?" he said. "Could you read me the notes on our Private's testimony?"

"Yes," she said, eyeing Gibbs as he took a seat at his desk to observe. "Private Covas witnessed several members of the Sons beating and ultimately killing a man, just before he joined the Marine Corps. He was on his way to meet with the Marshal in charge of protecting him until the trial, when he went missing."

"Interviews with the family?" Gibbs asked.

"I did those today, Boss," McGee said, shuffling through his notes. "They said pretty much what we expected. He was a pretty quiet kid, they never understood how he got into so much trouble as a kid. He straightened out as soon as he joined the Corps, started sending money home, helped his family out a lot. His mom, Esperanza Covas, says that he had the most trouble when he started hanging out with... this pair." McGee clicked a button on the remote and two mug shots appeared on the screen. "Miguel Ramirez and Pedro Ramon. Both have rap sheets that read like notes on how to be a gangster. Aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, armed robbery, and two outstanding warrants for car theft. They have yet to be arrested, Metro police can't find them." Luck met Ziva's eyes and shrugged.

"Sounds like we know who to bring in," Gibbs said. The team traded glances.

"How do we find 'em, boss?" Tony finally asked.

"I've got it," Luck said, stepping back from the board. All eyes turned to the detective. "Abby, can I borrow you?"

"But of course!" Abby trilled, pressing a hand to her heart. "Come on down to the Lab of Abby. Or Labby." She pulled Luck toward the elevator. Tony deposited her coffee neatly in her hand as she stumbled past.

"Thank you!" she called over her shoulder as the elevator doors slid shut.

Tony grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I like her. She says thank you." Gibbs shot him a look and he dropped back into his desk chair. "Not that there's anything wrong with quiet stoicism, boss."


	10. Chapter 10

"Okay," Abby said, hands hovering over her keyboard. "What am I looking for?"

"The Sons like to let their victims know they're coming. It's almost a gang tradition, harassing a victim before the hit, and I think for a traitor they'd really get into it. Vandalism, phone calls, the works."

"Wouldn't Mrs. Covas have reported something like that? To us?"

Luck shook her head. "Telling the cops wouldn't help. It wouldn't be her first instinct."

"Okay... so... phone records?"

"Yep. Check for repeated numbers, probably residential. They're most likely not going to ground with any sort of intensity, car theft is pretty light for these guys."

Abby's fingers clattered across the keys and the sound of her machinery filled the quiet for a few moments.

"Done," she chirped, printing her results with a keystroke and plucking the page from the tray. "Pattern analyzed and everything, complete with addresses and names." She pulled the page away as Luck reached for it. "Ah -ah. Information for information."

"Information?" Luck asked, lost.

"Yes. Information. You. Gibbs. History. Spill it." Abby pushed up a chair and glared at Luck until she sat.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Luck sighed, propping her feet up against the bottom runner of the lab table. "And then I can go hunt down the murdering gangbangers loose on our streets?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, then."

_He had become a regular, sitting in the same booth at the same, Tuesdays and Thursdays, forcing down the gritty black liquid that passed for coffee in that place, and they talked. About nothing, at first, and then about the Corps, and then about Shannon, and then - slowly - about Kelly. And slowly she could see the ache in his chest subside when their names passed his lips, still there, but bearable._

_It was on one of those Thursdays, under the steaming blanket of a summer drizzle that she first asked the question she had neglected so few weeks before. _

_"Why do you keep coming back, Gibbs? Am I really that great company?"_

_"You're company," he said, simply._

_"Well then, thank you," she said. "So are you, Gunney."_

_He asked his own question as he held out the chipped diner mug for a refill. "What about you, Luck?"_

_She obliged, pouring from a fresh pot. "What about me?"_

_"You're a smart girl, who knows her way around military jargon, but you work in an inner city diner, and don't mention your family. Or anything about yourself, for that matter."_

_"Oh, I'm an enigma," she said, but she grew quiet. He could see a strange stillness spread across her. "Well. I guess I've heard as much about you as I"m going to without giving back."_

_He simply looked at her (the way he had looked at his own daughter whenever she had something to hide) and waited.__  
_

_Luck cleared her throat and swirled her spoon aimlessly through her coffee. "Okay. I'm eighteen. I've been living on my own since I was sixteen. I make good grades. I hold down a job. And I'm getting out of here, soon, but I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life."_

_"I see," Gibbs said, considering. "Where are you going to college?"_

_"I... it's a long shot, but I applied to George Washington," she said. Her coffee-stirring became nervous. "And a couple other places. But I'll have to get a lot of scholarship money." She cleared her throat again. "So. You're building a boat?"_

_Gibbs could see that she was done with the topic, and resigned himself to the new conversation._


End file.
